Draco's Dramatics of the Dark Arts
by MegalegU
Summary: Narcissa Malfoy teaches her son lessons about life, love and how to properly exit a room while maintaining a confident swagger.


**A/N: So this was supposed to be a funny take on Draco and his progression throughout the books (i.e. his swag and whatnot) but then angst shoved its way through. Just a piece on how Draco came to be, I suppose. **

* * *

Draco arrives home from a party one day, dejected. All the other young boys had been shouting excitedly and rushing round the yard, playing with various toys. Draco had felt small and awkward, clutching onto the wrapped parcel his mother had told him to give to Tommy or Timmy – whatever the birthday boy's name was.

He had wanted to be one of the boys pretending to zoom about on a toy broomstick as well, but his father had always told him never to "engage in frivolous behavior".

He hadn't understood what "frivolous" meant until his father had pointed to a group of young children, much like the ones before him right then.

"You want to be perceived properly, Draco," he had warned him. "Others will not take you seriously when you act like…_that."_

Draco wished he knew what his father did to be taken so "seriously" by everyone else – he yearned for a certain map or list, something that gave him directions or a guide. His father didn't talk that often but when he did, Draco felt like he was parsing out some kind of code that only someone bigger (smarter, brighter – _better_) would understand.

He slumps over in his favorite chair in the study room and heaves out a gutsy sigh that he feels could lift every piece of furniture in the room.

His mother, Narcissa, sitting adjacent to him with a book perched atop her lap amusedly lifts an eyebrow. "That's not how you do it," she chides.

Draco, perplexed, lifts himself up off the chair to give her a questioning look.

"Let me show you something," she says.

* * *

"Okay – today we are going to start out with dramatic _sighs_," Narcissa begins, clutching at the folds of her ebony sweater. Her long tresses are tied in a bun and she yanks it free, letting it fall in waves along her back.

Six year-old Draco, small and timid in his rocking chair, nods. His mother has a way of giving everything a certain sort of air – a certain _embellishment _that makes it all the more alluring.

"What you want to do – Draco!" Narcissa scolds him sharply when he begins to tug at a spare thread on his trousers. "Inhale from your diaphragm – big, big breath, c'mon, sweetie – _there _you go. Now hold it – _hold it_! Anddd _exhale_! _Push _it out; you are a great big dragon breathing out fire. More _oohmph, _sweets – there you go! Perfect."

Draco, from beneath the flop of hair that had begun to curl over his forehead and hang before his eyes, grins. Encouraged, he sighs again, this time adding a sort of melody – a tune that really portrays his dissatisfaction.

Narcissa claps. "Yes – very good! Even higher, though – Draco! Give it an_ edge_; tell everyone how you really _feel_."

Draco bites his lip in concentration. Sometimes his mother confuses him, when she says things like this. He tells her how he feels all the time and she seems to want to hear something else.

Still, he persists, and his mother gives a celebratory cheer when he gives a sigh that both heaves and sounds throughout the room.

Narcissa informs Draco that the dramatic sigh can be used virtually anywhere – "Especially the loo, dear; the acoustics are excellent."

Dramatic _entrances, _however, are quite fun.

"Now, darling, dresses are great for these sorts of situations. Alas, you don't maintain the girlish figure. We'll have to do with a long coat. Here." And she drapes a heavy material around him that smells like vaguely of peppermints – she must have borrowed his father's jacket from the hall closet.

Narcissa leads him outside the room, closing the double doors in front of him. She guides him through the other side, saying, "In these situations, what you _really _want to do is _puuuush _both the doors – see if you can open both at the same time."

Draco struggles, leaning all of his weight into the heavy oak. Lucius had had the doors shipped in from Norway. At the time, he'd admired the teak material. Now, however, he finds it to be a massive inconvenience.

"Draco? Honey?" Narcissa asks from the other side of the door.

Draco bites his lip, shoves his shoulder in harder. He hopes that he can do this before his mother rushes to his rescue. He can remember a similar time on the playground, when he had merely been trying to show a neighborhood boy a jump he could do from the swing set. Unfortunately, he had taken quite a fall and had been embarrassed when his mother ran over, picking him up and planting large kisses along his hairline in reassurance.

Finally, the door wedges open and Draco quickly runs through, determined not to let the door catch him before he can make his way through. He arrives at his mother's feet, panting.

Narcissa levels him with a stare. "How do you think you did just then, Draco?"

He rubs a hand over his opposite arm apprehensively. She sounds like his father did that time he caught Draco sitting in the remains of a crystal vase he had dropped in his haste just to _look _at it, just to _touch. _"What do you think you just did, Draco?" he had asked and Draco had wondered if it was a trick question.

"Um…" Draco looks up at his mother.

Narcissa's stern expression morphs into something gentler. "Draco, what you need to have is _confidence_. You can be the most scared little boy around but what you need to show people, what they need to _see_ - is confidence."

He nods and does it again. And again. And again. He does it six different ways until the anxious fold at the corner of his mouth disappears. He thinks of Goyle's birthday party and how he had fallen into his cake trying to dance around the table. This brings the smirk he needs.

"Draw the room in," his mother's voice reminds him.

He mirrors the haughty steps his father has whenever he walks into a public place. He channels the slight turn of his head that always has others craning to see the image eyes cannot stray from. He steps rhythmically to the pounding of his heartbeat. And he allows himself a smile when his mother says,

"Draco – that's _wonderful_!"

Exits are more of the same but he manages to put a significant saunter into the way he departs. He deprives the room "of _light_, Draco, of _incandescence_" and smirks knowingly when his mother comments,

"You look so much like your father, Draco."

Draco does not correct his mother – does not tell her, "I will never be like him" because he thinks she will chastise him. She will tell him all the things she always does before he goes to sleep at night: "You can be anything, Draco," and "believe in yourself". He wonders if his mother truly understands just how powerful his father is.

The "Lessons in Dramatics" continue on until he is about eleven years old and receives his letter from Hogwarts. He permits himself a, "Well, guess I'd better go out and get my wand," and shrugs his shoulders at the passive expression on his father's face.

He arrives for his usual lesson the next day and his mother simply tells him that "you don't need my guidance anymore, Draco" and the significant twinge he feels cannot be detected from the outside.

So – he supposes his mother is right, after all.


End file.
